


Luke 6:38

by akissontitan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Titfucking, Trans Character/s, crowley is transmasc or like whatever u wish to impose on him but he decidedly somehow has boobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20118592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akissontitan/pseuds/akissontitan
Summary: Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom.





	Luke 6:38

**Author's Note:**

> Really into this fandom’s 666 word fic trend B)
> 
> Fwiw, author is a transmasc with tits and yes i will Absolutely fetishise myself, thank u

“This is stupid,” Crowley mutters, as if it wasn’t entirely his idea to begin with. “It won’t work.”

“We don’t have to,” Aziraphale assures him, although with his eyes caught on Crowley’s chest, he probably doesn’t come off as very convincing. It’s just so difficult to help himself when they’re together like this; Crowley looking up at him from his seat on the floor, nude and beautifully framed in lamplight. Aziraphale feels like he’s been hard for him forever. Like there’s been no moment other than this, somehow, despite all of their many, many moments.

“Sod it.” The bite to Crowley’s voice causes Aziraphale to jump minutely, bringing him back to himself. Crowley raises himself up on his knees, lurching forward until his arms are braced on the mattress either side of Aziraphale’s thighs. “Fuck my tits, Angel.”

It’s obviously meant in jest, at least partly, but the shamelessness of it all makes Aziraphale’s throat feel tight. He’s hot and wanting in his own hand, much as he’s tried not to stroke himself, and it’s a simple thing to shuffle forward and let Crowley come to meet him.

There’s no cleavage, barely a metric cup of breast tissue in total, but when Crowley pushes them together around Aziraphale’s length, it’s soft and lovely and decadent like the sweetest dessert. He doesn’t trust himself to meet Crowley’s eyes without _embarrassing himself_, so he holds his gaze where they touch; the flickering light reflecting off the oil Crowley rubbed on himself, that little bit of crisp auburn hair around his nipples. He’ll kiss them later tonight, he thinks. He’ll lay his darling boy down gently and suck holy incantations onto every inch of his body. Men have always been such a vice of Aziraphale’s, but none so much as this one, perfectly sculpted by the most thoughtful of architects, worthiest of praise.

“Is it, like…” Crowley manages, breath a little laboured from working his chest, “Is it anything?” 

And again, that voice coaxes Aziraphale away from his own head a little, and all of the songs of songs roiling in his mind. He takes stock of his body: the thrum of his chest, heat in his belly, the pulse in his cock as he thrusts up towards Crowley’s pretty red mouth. He finds his lips have gone heavy when he tries to speak, mumbles “yes, darling, but your _tongue_, could I…”

Crowley’s taking him in before he can finish his sentence, clever tongue pressed against the underside of his cock and curling around the head. One hand holds him at the base, away from his breasts now, caressing so gently it makes him feel like he’s been set alight. “Darling!” Aziraphale chokes, hands suddenly in Crowley’s pretty curls, tugging just slightly.

He feels the reverberations as Crowley moans deep in his throat, and hears the wet sounds of Crowley’s fingers as they slip between his legs, and he thinks about how long he’ll spend there later, milking come from his lovely body until the sun begins to rise. Aziraphale comes suddenly and with a choked sob on his lover’s tongue, pangs of release leaving him curled forward so far that he could kiss the crown of Crowley’s head if he tried. He does just that before he rises again, coming to rest with his arms behind him and diaphragm swelling with each panted breath.

Crowley’s throat bobs when he swallows, which Aziraphale studies with careful attention. When he speaks, his voice is raspy from the effort of taking him in. “Love, would you…?” Crowley makes a vague motion that could mean just about anything, if Aziraphale didn’t know him so dearly. He takes Crowley’s wrist — attached to the same hand that had been inside himself a moment ago — and draws him from his place on the ground and up onto the bed.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale brushes a curl away from Crowley’s cheek, the same vibrant red as his used lips and chest and sex, “I’ve got you sevenfold.”


End file.
